


Neckfreak

by dysphorie



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, CoS spoilers, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Gore, Heavy Angst, Horror, Like there's a plot in there somewhere, Mild Gore, No Fluff, Out of Character, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, Weird Plot Shit, Whump, i will straight murder anyone who says that, inappropriate use of a penis, no happy ending, not a song fic, tags in the end notes, there is nothing nice in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: Corey loves you so much. Sometimes you worry that he's going to love you to death.
Relationships: Corey Taylor/Original Character(s), Corey Taylor/Reader
Comments: 25
Kudos: 31





	Neckfreak

**Author's Note:**

> Tags above are generic. See end notes for extra, specific tags.
> 
> Look this is just whumpy horror with smut thrown in, idk what you want me to say. This didn't turn out quite as dark or gross as I intended, but it's not bad for my first time writing horror in a veeeery long time. This is the first X reader fic I've ever written too, it was a really interesting challenge.

It’s not the deep inky blackness of night or sleep that you see. 

It’s closer to the grey ache of insomnia in the early hours of the morning. There’s a drum beat of pain hammering at your brain as you try to pry your eyes open. It’s so bright, light searing your corneas and making them water. _Fuck._ The pain in your head is awful, spreading from your forehead down to your nose like the mother of all sinus headaches. It hurts. It _all_ hurts. Licking your lips you taste blood, but you’re too confused to work out where you’re bleeding from. This isn’t right. What happened? You try to say the words but your voice fails you, barely a croak in your throat. It hurts too, the muscles feel tight. When you reach for your neck to rub it, try to soothe it, fear slams into your chest when you realise you can’t. Can’t move your arms. Or your legs. _What the_ \- you try to pull yourself free but whatever's got you trapped is too tight, and you're so weak that even the idea of effort is too much. Everything hurts.

The roof of your mouth aches when you open your mouth again to call out, no sound escaping anyway because your throat feels like it’s jam-packed with razors soaked in bleach, rattling and making you cough wetly as spit gets caught in the swelling. Spluttering coughs wrack your whole body, pulling you to bend double despite your aching ribs, and every hack feels like a screwdriver in your temple. Dizzy, you spit a few times and try to gasp in air, ignoring the pain in your chest that feels like something’s broken, and that’s when you realise - you’re staring at your knees. Your _bare_ knees, flecked with blood-stained spittle. Bare _everything._ Where the fuck are your clothes? As if you didn’t already feel vulnerable enough, trapped and muted, you've been stripped of anything vaguely resembling armour. What were you wearing? What were you _doing?_

You try to look around for something, anything, any sort of clue to what the fuck is happening, but the movement makes your vision blur with pain, pulsing sensations making you feel dizzy and sick. All you can see is the blurred facets of your own kitchen anyway, same as it ever was. Except there's a big bloody mark on the wall by the door, roughly at head height. Your head height.

“Hey baby, you awake?” 

The sudden sound makes you jump. _Corey?_ It sounds like him but it can’t be. You might not know much about your current predicament but you know that it isn’t him. The only place Corey’s ever been interested in tying you up has been the bedroom after all. Your eyes still hurt too much to open properly but you can see enough to know the owner of the voice isn’t in front of you, but your head hurts way too much to try and figure out more than that. Even trying to turn to face the sound is too much. 

Start again. _What happened?_ you try to say, but you're interrupted by that voice again, making shushing noises and encouraging you to be quiet. A warm hand cups your neck and your initial instinct is to cringe away, but you realise it feels familiar; a calloused digit tracing a figure eight behind your ear, running over the shell before tugging the lobe, the loving way it cradles your jaw and rubs a thumb across your cheek and bottom lip, and the nausea that roils through your stomach knocks you for six. _Oh no, oh please -_

There’s footsteps, and then a figure crouching in front of you, hand still firm on your cheek. It tilts your head here and there as you blink hard, trying to clear the cobwebs of pain to focus. Quickly you wish you hadn’t bothered. There he is, blue eyes bright and smile soft, staring at you like you’re the sun, and it still makes your heart flip the way it always has. 

"There we go," he says. "Was starting to get worried!" His voice is cheerful, upbeat, it stabs into your skull. "You holding up ok?" 

_What_...what kind of fucking question is _that,_ you think. It makes about as much sense as the rest of the situation, to be fair. He doesn't wait for an answer anyway, instead running his hands over your wrists and ankles, checking that whatever he's got you restrained with is still holding firm. The way he rubs your hands, checking your circulation, feels nice. Familiar. Sickening.

"You took a hell of a beating, babe. I gotta say, I'm impressed." His freakishly nonchalant attitude grates in your ears, the concerned look on his face just the icing on top of this shitty confusing cake. You manage to croak out a syllable, maybe the beginning of the word please, but Corey’s fast, shifting to cover your lips with his fingers. They smell of iron and sweat.

"No no, shhhh. Don't talk. I think I fucked your throat up a little when I - when we -" he fumbles for the words and you have a faint flashback; first to Corey with his hands buried in your hair, fucking your throat as you choked on his dick, drool spilling from your mouth when he pulled back to let you breathe. The head had rammed into the back of your mouth repeatedly, teeth grazing it over and over but Corey hadn't stopped, even when you gave the signal. Then there was…

It's all gone blurry again. You remember hands. Around your throat maybe. Why? Did you ask? You can't remember. You've asked in the past, for those hands. But this time? It's gone. You hear him weakly mumble something about how it's probably gonna hurt to talk for a while, and your first thought is that well, at least it wont be for long.

_Wait._ Where did that come from?

Why aren’t you fighting back? Why aren’t you arguing? A normal, rational person would be trying their hardest to escape and save their skin, but you’re just sitting here, taking what you’ve been given and waiting for the rest. Why? You tell yourself it's because you're too weak, because it hurts too much. That you'll make your move when the right time comes. 

That time wont come. Why? You know fine well why. Because you always knew this was going to happen. The signs were all there. It wasn’t a matter of _“if”,_ it was more like _“when”._ Corey had warned you when you met that this would all end in broken bones. At the time you’d laughed it off, but as time went on you came to terms with it being the truth. Not to imply he had ever been abusive. Never, not once had he done anything of the sort. Not that it changed anything. The threat of something happening was always still there, in the very bones of your relationship. You made the choice to stay anyway, always said you'd go the second he gave you reason to, but then that never happened and you let your guard down. Rookie mistake.

His footsteps are slow, quiet, pacing the room a few feet from you where you can’t quite turn your head to see without wanting to be sick. There's some shuffling, a drawer opening, loud metallic rummaging. It's like a fucking ice pick between your eyes. The pain in your head refuses to ease, and you're pretty sure your nose is bleeding again. Everything feels like lead, and you're so foggy and confused. None of this feels real, and you bite your lip as if trying to pinch yourself to wake up from a nightmare. Nothing. You’re still tied to a chair in your kitchen, just now your lip is bleeding again from the split you reopened with your teeth.

Corey’s talking again, walking around the chair to stand in front of you again. His voice has finally lost that fucking blase tone at least. "I -" he pauses, wipes his mouth. "I really am sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean for it to go like this, seriously." When he says _this_ he gestures vaguely between you with what you can see now is a black ceramic kitchen knife. You bought the set yourself then promptly lost most of them. Ironic. Corey apologises again, voice wavering. He sounds legitimately upset. It's little comfort. Hopefully the way you look at him conveys that.

You let your eyes flutter closed again then so you don't have to look at the way his face twists, that expression of regret just that bit too raw, a bit too close to genuine. He’s always affected you like this, so attuned to his emotions and actions that you feel things ten times more strongly than you ever have with anyone else. Logically you should hate him right now, you know that much, but you don’t. You can’t. You think about the blood stain, and the pain, and the river flowing from your nose, and figure things probably aren’t quite right inside your head anymore. That’d explain things a little, it’s hard to think clearly when your brain’s been scrambled like eggs. Just...the idea of him being upset is just so sad. You hate making him sad. Any time you do, you go to the ends of the earth to fix it.

Corey's close again. You can smell him, all soapy skin and fabric conditioned clothes, and it overwhelms your senses as he carefully slides onto your lap, straddling your thighs and pressing til you’re chest to chest. There's a pause, the contact broken, where he must pull off his shirt, because the next moment his skin is rubbing against yours. Oh, his skin has always been so soft, downy chest hair tickling your body. It's almost nice, comforting. You've always liked burying your face there, hiding from the world in his arms. Something in you yearns to do it right now. Your breath catches in your throat though, when you realise he’s hard in his underwear, dick hot and stiff against your belly. Precome smears onto you, velvety skin on skin. For some reason this horrifies you more than anything else, cutting through the fog a little. Sure you expected this day to come eventually, but not like this. 

He pets your hair, cards his fingers into it with a gentle grasp. “Look at me, _please_ baby…” 

A tear rolls down your cheek as you take a stuttering breath and obey. You've never been good at denying him. The way he stammers, voice low and catching and flooded with desire, reminds you of the first time he touched you. His hands were shaky, trembling as they mapped the planes of your body. Yours had done the same. He does the same now, running a hand across your shoulder, down your side, up the centre of your chest to rest in the little dip where your clavicles meet. Corey's eyes are roaming around your face when you look at him, another tiny smile playing on his lips. He looks hungry, barely contained.

Your temples throb as a tiny whimper cuts through your throat.

With a soft groan Corey's head rolls back, like it's all too much, exposing the milky skin of his neck, and you fleetingly consider sinking your teeth into it. You can practically taste it, the warmth and iron, and you desperately want to feel his heartbeat flutter under your lips as you tear his jugular free. But you can barely hold your head up. Your scalp hurts with the weight of your skull pulling against Corey's hand where it grips your hair, as if your head isn't sore enough as it is, and he's not even holding it that tightly, just bearing some of the weight. 

Suddenly he snaps back to you again, pushing your head back into his palm as he presses his lips to yours. God, you want to resist with every fibre of your being but his tongue is insistent and when he whimpers _"Please…"_ against your skin you can't bear to reject him. He just sounds so... _sad._ Sad and soft and fuck, you know it's wrong and ridiculous but your body still aches to hold him and console him. All those times you folded your body around him, fitting your curves and angles together to wrap your arm over his side and stroke his belly the way you knew he liked. Only letting your hand sneak further down when you were sure he was comforted but still needed that extra reassurance that everything was ok. That he was real and you were real and that everything would be ok. Countless times you listened to his moans and sobs as he spilled over your hand, clinging to you and kissing your knuckles before you even had a chance to clean up. Maybe if you could tempt him to bed, this could all be fixed.

Cold. Cold and sharp. You can't see it but you feel the sharp steel tip of the knife drag low across your belly. There's a sting, like a papercut, and you flinch. Corey breathes out a harsh low laugh, as though the air's just been punched out of him; it sounds like pure childlike wonder and amazement all in one. 

Suddenly pain rips through your body, utterly taking your breath away. Your jaw drops open soundlessly, save from a faint gurgle from somewhere deep in what feels like it could be your fucking soul. Corey holds you close, kissing your forehead as he cuts and white noise fills your head, edged with the sound of Corey's ragged breathing and occasionally muttering _"Fuck,"_ under his breath. The knife is mercifully sharp, opening you cleanly and easily. The wound itself doesn't feel too deep but there's still plenty of blood seeping between your legs, pooling on the chair and dripping to the floor in a steady _plip, plip, plip._ It's wholly too gentle a sound for something so terrible. It's so _warm,_ too. You're shaking, maybe it'll warm you up? You must be cold, to be shaking so hard.

Corey's still talking to you, voice sounding strange and far away. "It's okay baby, it's ok," he croons, stroking your hair back and kissing your sweaty forehead again. "You're being so good for me. So perfect, so good…" 

Trailing off he presses his forehead to yours to look down between your bodies, fingers lingering in the space between the wound and your crotch, stroking the slick, tender skin. Your belly twitches, wavering between pulling away and craving more, and why why _why_ the fuck is your brain like this? You should be screaming, repulsed, begging him to stop and hating every moment with every fiber of your being. But when Corey's fingers move up, tracing the hole he's made, dipping inside like they've dipped into you so many times before, you just hope you survive long enough for him to finger you the normal way again. 

The pain is exquisite. There's really no other word for it. Corey's breath stutters against your lips and you risk looking down, just able to make out his hand. Two fingers are sunk up to the knuckles, stroking the walls of your intestines in the same way they usually play inside your hole. You want to gag. You want to cry. You can't, because...because…

Because everything's going wobbly, dim and shaky. The fingers in your belly shift as they explore, and it seems to push you further into that feeling. You shudder as a chill runs down your spine. _Cold._ Of course you're cold, need clothes, need contact, need Corey to be warm. You lean into his body, press your face against his neck. _Mmmm, warm,_ is all you can think. His arm is firm around your shoulders now, fingers gently stroking the back of your neck as he crooks his fingers here and there.

Then those fingers are withdrawing, and Corey's pushing you away slightly. Your body aches at the loss as much as the action, and a whine escapes as you try to lean back in. _"Patience, sweetheart,"_ Corey says, sliding his hand through the blood in your lap. You glance down just in time to see him stroke his cock a few times, painting it slick red as he angles it towards you. _No,_ you think, some description of survival instinct kicking in. _Please, no,_ because surely not. No one would do this, especially to someone they love.

Why are you suddenly objecting? Your mind swims, unable to unite your thought processes. Just seconds ago you were horrified but desperate for Corey to do whatever he needed to do, feeling loved and needed regardless of your predicament, and now? _Now_ you think it's too much and he's going too far? The pain in your head escalates as you strain to think straight.

With a gasped sob Corey drops his head to your shoulder, warm and wet against your neck as he slides inside, into the pit of your guts. Oh god, you swear it feels like he’s about to hit your spine. You’ve told him more than once during sex that he fucks you like he’s trying to fuck your soul, fucking _through_ you more than into you. Corey always said he wanted to get deeper and deeper, as deep as humanly possible. Now he has. He always keeps his promises.

Oddly it doesn't hurt much more; it's more like a cramp, a clenched-fist punch that makes you feel nauseous. Perhaps you're just finally going into shock. It doesn't matter, not when he tongues that spot at the crook of your shoulder that he knows takes you apart. Oh, how you long to hold him, do the same to him. You miss the taste of his skin and the smell of his hair, and as he thrusts lazily you turn your head to nuzzle against him as best you can. Your eyes feel heavy, same as your limbs, so you don't fight it. You just listen to his moans and whimpers, cataloguing them, determined to take them with you. 

Again and again he moves, fucking deep into you, your warmth, his breathing ragged and limbs trembling. He shakes so easily, always has, like his body just can’t contain how much he needs you. Hazy memories of lazy mornings spent in bed come to mind, waking up with Corey’s dick snug inside your warm, wet walls. Your favourite way to start the day, filled and happy as he whispered in your ear or raked his teeth across your shoulders, sighing and shivering as he worked you over the falls til you plunged headfirst into your orgasm. Or sometimes he’d hold you down, pin you to the bed by your shoulders and stifle your screams with your face in the pillow, only coming when he finally heard you sob, beg, cry out. Either way you loved it.

A wheezy whine pulls you back to the present. Corey’s hips stutter as he fucks you, trying to hold back, keep things slow. He grabs every inch of you he can, trying to get a grip with his blood-slick hands, covering you with streaks and fingernail gouges until he gives up and just clutches your jaw, hard. He kisses your face, soft and barely there touches that your brain tries desperately to register as feeling anything other than nice, but a fresh tear rolls down your cheek as your body leans into the touch. You still crave it, those gentle gestures, no matter that they're coming from someone causing you so much pain. 

And Corey is gentle, _so_ gentle. Even as he finally slows to a stop, dick still buried in your belly as he rips the tape away from your wrists with a hand over your mouth, muffling your groans of pain as it leaves your skin raw. He’s gentle as pulls out and stands, when he hauls you into his arms, so strong and sure like you always loved, and turns first you both and then just you, like a ballerina in a macabre pas de deux. But the thud you make as you hit the table is sickening, as is the pain that flares across your ribs as Corey drives you into the wood, hand firm between your shoulder blades. You barely register the pain of your face smacking the table as he pushes his fingers inside you. _At least it’s one of the normal holes,_ you think vaguely,

The blood soaks into the raw wood surface, enough to let you slide easily as you’re jostled back and forth. Corey’s fucked you on this table more times than either of you care to count, so many dinners left to burn when neither of you could resist. Sweat, tears, lube, come, all of them have seeped into this table to fill it with memories, your blood now just another contribution. So many times, spread across this surface, hearing Corey’s hips and thighs collide with your skin as he moved inside you and his fingers bruised your waist, your hips, your throat. Now is no different. One hand firm on the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip as his dick pops in. You're pretty dry but he doesn’t care; he’s always preferred it that way. So do you No one could ever accuse either of you of having ‘healthy’ sexual appetites. 

He doesn’t hold back. Never really could, which always made you feel so desired, so wanted. His hips pummel you, his movements desperate and frantic, rhythmless, the edge of the table cutting into your hip bones. You finally cry out, and it feels like vomiting shards of glass. You cry out his name, over and again, and you don’t understand anything that’s happening but you understand that you can feel how much he needs this. With a snarl he snatches your left wrist, twisting it behind your back and using the extra leverage to haul you back against his dick, slamming into you. The slapping of skin on skin is obscene. His movements are getting more and more feverish, control slipping, and you almost don't hear the sickening crunch over the sound of his choked out moans. You do hear it though. 

Then agony streaks across your shoulders, black spots dancing in front of your eyes. The vomit spits out before you can stop it, pooling below your cheek. Corey pulls your arm again but it doesn't resist anymore, and he makes a grunt of what sounds like irritation and impatience. Like somehow him breaking you like a cheap toy is your fault. When he lets your wrist go your arm flops uselessly to your side, ratcheting the pain up a few notches. It's like your entire body is on fire, ever nerve alight and sparking. And you were just getting used to the idea of being in shock too. Hopefully, you think, one of the sources of the pain will put you out of your misery soon.

With a jerk you're wrenched upright again, gasping with a wheeze, and what little breath you manage to pull in is knocked right back out when Corey throws you back into the chair. Hard. Your broken ribs scream at you, howling over the pain of everything else. You cough, splutter, blood splashing Corey's torso red as he climbs onto you again. His knuckles rub against the hole in your abdomen as his fist flies over his dick, squelching loud and filthy, panting against your lips that he bites over and over. Then he’s pressing hard against you again, ramming his cock inside you again so hard your vision blacks out for a second, and he clings to you and sobs like his heart is breaking as he comes, and comes, shaking hard and pumping hot and slick inside you. You want to hold him, want to nurse him through it and wipe away his tears, but you can’t move anymore. Can’t see properly. All you can do it let your head roll down to your chest as he pulls back and out, and the marbled mixture of come and blood leaking onto your lap is the last thing you see as your eyes crash shut.

Cold. Fuck, you’re so cold, despite the fuzzy sheet that’s wrapped around you. The vibrations of wheels fast on asphalt rattle your body where it’s slumped against the car door. It’s quite soothing actually. Reminds you of long road trips when Corey would drive, lulling you to sleep when he sang along with whatever music was playing. You can hear a faint humming now. It might be Corey. It might not. You can’t tell. Everything feels distant, like you’re watching it happen to someone else. That’s good. You’re too tired for anything else. All you can feel is cold...

When you come to again everything’s dark. You wonder if you’ve maybe gone blind, until a breeze flicks the sheet from your face. You’re on your back. All you can see is the vault of the sky, spattered with stars that strobe as your vision falters, and you don’t realise at first that the sky is actually going cloudy, it’s not just your eyes.. Sometimes the grass flickers into view, moved by a slight breeze, but other than that all there is is blackness. 

The first drop of rain hits your eyeball. You barely flinch. Another lands on your cheek. Soon a steady drizzle has started, not enough to soak but enough to spur Corey to move faster. You can’t see him, just hear him huffing and groaning with effort. You know it doesn’t matter what he’s doing. You couldn’t change it even if you wanted to. Even as your senses dull you can smell the dirt wake up as the rain pitter-patters around you, the word _"geosmin"_ creeping back from some long-forgotten corner. Corey taught you it. It's what makes the earth around you smell so good, petrichor in the air and dust filling your lungs as your rattly breaths take in as much of the scent as possible. Everything is warm, even though you feel so cold. 

Then Corey’s back, leaning over you, and you try to smile as his face swims into view. He strokes your face, brushes your hair back from your forehead, leans in close to pepper your face with kisses. His eyelashes ghost across your skin. You rasp in a breath.

"I need you...one last time...need to feel you," he mumbles, more to the wind than to you. Then your legs are spread and his weight is on your body, and it is comforting, safe, pressing you into the soft ground. You can't really feel much now, so when he enters you roughly it's more like a memory that you feel, of the first time perhaps, or maybe the last? It doesn't matter. It’s slow and tender, and he slides in and out of your body with gentle movements that barely shift you. He sighs, tells you that he loves you. You just listen, like you have all night, to the little sounds Corey makes as he fucks you, fills you so impossibly full that had you the energy or ability, you'd cry.

Cry like Corey's crying. You want it to just be the rain but you’ve felt Corey’s tears on your skin enough to know the difference. It feels nearly impossible but you manage to crack your eyes open, just able to make out Corey's face close to yours, those glassy blue eyes you love so much. _No, no,_ you want to say. _Don't cry baby, it's alright._ But it's not. He's going to lose you and that's such a shame. You don't want him to be cold and lonely without you. How could you be so stupid? This is all your fault.

All too soon Corey stiffens, grabbing your face and pressing kisses to your unresponsive lips as he twitches deep inside you. You nearly feel it. Nearly feel the warmth fill you like a flame, and for a split second you hope it’ll catch and bring you back.

But no. The moment passes, the flame burns out, and again you’re cold and empty. Corey leans up to move off you and you mourn it, want that safe, loving pressure again. Deft fingers tug the sheet around you again, shielding you from the sting of the breeze. The tall grass is barely moving but it feels like a hurricane is whipping around your bodies.

When Corey picks you up again he cradles you close, your head lolling against his shoulder as he whispers, _"I love you."_ The squeeze he gives you before lowering you down is reassuring, almost freeing in a way, because you know somehow that he wont be lifting you again. It's ok, you understand. Needs must.

The first of the dirt hits your face, landing in your mouth and up your nose. You should object, cough, but you can't. It's ok though. It's warm. Smells nice. A blanket covering you slowly but surely, growing warmer and heavier as the moments pass. Faintly you hear Corey panting with effort. It's familiar. Soothing. The drumming of the rain is fainter now too. Far away. With Corey. Now it's dark. Dark. And warm.

**Author's Note:**

> OTHER TAGS: grievous bodily harm, multiple rapes, mutilation, wound/gut-fucking, coming in wound, graphic violence, bone-breaking, murder, technically being buried alive, traumatic brain injury, emotional manipulation, death
> 
> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [She Said She Wants to Bleed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973815) by [thisplace_ishaunted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisplace_ishaunted/pseuds/thisplace_ishaunted)




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